“Why?”
“Because you lack a collar.”
Collar and keep you. “Um, that’s hot—in a totally appalling kind of way.” But hey, this was all pretend, all gossamer fantasy and silken decadence, right? Noticing that many of the women did, in fact, sport collars, I asked him in a fake petulant tone, “How come I don’t get a collar?”
But he was serious when he answered, “You haven’t earned one.” Right when I was about to flare, he added, “And I haven’t earned the right to give it to you.” He looked so conflicted behind his domino.
A fit, middle-aged man swept in front of us. He wore an elephant mask with an exaggerated trunk. Subtle, buddy, reaaallll subtle. He started to speak, but Sevastyan just gave him his signature killing look—the one that made men quake.
We weren’t stopped again.
The owl woman was waiting for us at that grand set of stairs. We followed her up to a second-floor landing, then made our way down a hallway lit by gas lamps.
“Where are we going, Siberian?”
“Patience,” he intoned.
Not exactly my strong suit. After all, impatience was a sibling to curiosity.
A thought struck me. “Why did you pick a butterfly mask for me?” Of all the creatures he could have chosen.
“Do you think there has to be a reason?”
“I’m finding that you don’t do anything without a reason.”
“Perhaps there was . . .”
“Here we are,” the woman said, stopping before an unmarked door. She unlocked it, and we entered.
An ornate candle chandelier cast subdued light over the space. In the middle of the room was a large settee upholstered in sumptuous-looking fabric. Antique chairs and tables made up a sitting area off to the side; a copper tub sat off to another. A plush theater curtain covered an entire wall.
The air was warm, smelling of candle wax and . . . newness. Which was odd, considering how vintage everything else had seemed.
It also smelled of leather.
The woman opened a waiting bottle of chilled champagne, pouring two flutes before she left. At the door, she gave me a knowing wink. What did she know that I didn’t?
Maybe that a train was barreling down the trestle? Or how deep the freaking water was?
Keep cool, Natalie. I trusted this man to protect me, to pleasure me, to be what I needed him to be.
He motioned to the settee. “Sit.”
I did, noting that it faced the theater curtain. Would we be viewing a movie? A bawdy play? We hadn’t gotten to enjoy the masquerade at all, I thought with disappointment. In books, people always got to stay till midnight at least—not ten measly minutes.
Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I spied covered shapes throughout the room—shapes that could be anything. But I had an idea. My mind raced to those BDSM vids I’d devoured, the primer I’d inhaled, the magazine I’d shown him. Was there a pillory in here, or a spanking bench, or a swing? Would Sevastyan bind me up to torment me?
Part of me was terrified at the prospect. But I was woman enough to admit the idea got me wet. Roll with it, roll with it.
When he sat beside me, I said, “What is this room?”
“It’s ours. One of the very few available to own.”
Ours? “How long have you had it?”
“About nine hours. I had it renovated today and equipped to my specifications.”
Since our fight this morning? That explained the new smell. I could only imagine the money he’d had to throw at this to get everything ready in time.
He picked up a multi-button remote from the table beside the settee. “You told me that you wanted to see more of Paris. Here’s another slice of it.” He pressed a button. The curtain began to open, revealing a wall of glass.
Behind the glass was . . . was . . .
When I realized what I was beholding, I breathed, “Oh. My. God.”
Sevastyan’s hand shot out to catch my champagne flute just before it hit the ground. . . .
Chapter 34
When my shock lessened a degree, I was able to comprehend what I was seeing beyond the room’s glass wall.
Sevastyan had brought me to this private club to witness . . . an orgy.
And it was going on strong.
There must have been three dozen participants, attractive ones. They were all in a center ring, as if in a circus, with sex apparatus everywhere.
Masked men and women were strapped to X-frames, caged in pillories, or suspended from chains in the ceiling. One woman was fettered to what looked like a body-shaped massage table. Females and males were bent over crimson boudoir chairs. Strong hands gripped splayed ankles.
Once I’d recovered enough to react, my hands flew to my mask. “They can see us watching them?”
“They can’t see inside,” Sevastyan assured me. “They only see a mirror, unless we push a button on the remote. And, Natalie, they’re fully aware they’re being watched.”
Then I’d just been taken to voyeur heaven. “This—is—the—tits.”
“Indeed.”
One naked woman was perched on a trapeze with her ass atop the bar, her feet resting on either side. The trapeze was lowered until she was mouth-level with a guy who buried his face between her legs, while a brawny man slowly took him from behind.
Not everyone was naked. Some wore leather accessories. Others wore elaborate lingerie: shimmery corsets, intricate garters, and striped hose as if from Moulin Rouge. One man’s entire body was encased in some kind of vacuum-sealed black sleeve, with only an air tube and his erection protruding—the latter of which was promptly utilized by a nubile female.